“Yes, Gaston, yes:  I am your best friend.”

“Of course you are.  Being my brother, you are naturally my true friend.  You are not married, you say.  Then we will have to do the best we can, and keep house for ourselves.  We will live together like two old bachelors, as we are, and be as happy as kings; we will lead a gay life, and enjoy everything that can be enjoyed.  I feel twenty years younger already.  The sight of your face renews my youth, and I feel as active and strong as I did the night I swam across the swollen Rhone.  And that was long, long ago.  The struggles, privations, and anxieties endured since, have been enough to age any man.  I feel old, older than my years.”

“What an idea!” interrupted Louis:  “why, you look younger than I do.”

“You are jesting.”

“I swear I think you look the younger.”

“Would you have recognized me?”

“Instantly.  You are very little changed.”

And Louis was right.  He himself had an old, worn-out, used-up appearance; while Gaston, in spite of his gray hair and weather-beaten face, was a robust man, in the full maturity of his prime.

It was a relief to turn from Louis’s restless eyes and crafty smile to Gaston’s frank, honest face.

“But,” said Gaston, “how did you know that I was living?  What kind chance guided you to my house?”

Louis was prepared for this question.  During his eighteen hours’ ride by the railway, he had arranged all his answers, and had his story ready.

“We must thank Providence for this happy meeting,” he replied.  “Three days ago, a friend of mine returned from the baths, and mentioned that he had heard that a Marquis of Clameran was near there, in the Pyrenees.  You can imagine my surprise.  I instantly supposed that some impostor had assumed our name.  I took the next train, and finally found my way here.”

“Then you did not expect to see me?”

“My dear brother, how could I hope for that?  I thought that you were drowned twenty-three years ago.”

“Drowned!  Mlle. de la Verberie certainly told you of my escape?  She promised that she would go herself, the next day, and tell my father of my safety.”

Louis assumed a distressed look, as if he hesitated to tell a sad truth, and said, in a regretful tone: 

“Alas! she never told us.”

Gaston’s eyes flashed with indignation.  He thought that perhaps Valentine had been glad to get rid of him.

“She did not tell you?” he exclaimed.  “Did she have the cruelty to let you mourn my death? to let my old father die of a broken heart?  Ah, she must have been very fearful of what the world says.  She sacrificed me, then, for the sake of her reputation.”

“But why did you not write to us?” asked Louis.

“I did write as soon as I had an opportunity; and Lafourcade wrote back, saying that my father was dead, and that you had left the country.”